Throwaway
by Proud to be Plug
Summary: Some things are fantastic. Some people are unbelievable. And some things are just throwaway.


**Author's Note: So. This is an experiment in the use of second-person narration. That's kind of it, really. XD**

**Be warned. There is one, non-sexual, use of the F word. **

**Please enjoy, or not, and review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson. All my fanfic writings are non-profit. Tis all for fun****. **

Throwaway.

You fought in the war, in both wars, even. You did the right thing, or at least what you were told was the right thing. You played the supporting role, dutifully cheered on the leaders during the battles, and cheerily clapped them on the back and congratulated them when it was all over.

You didn't do anything amazing, you just held down the fort and kept going, kept things turning. You did the same as thirty or forty others; following orders sent down from the high strategists, marching to battle after battle and slaying monster after monster, over and over until every motion felt as familiar as breathing and as easy as moving.

And, at the time anyway, you enjoyed it. You enjoyed playing the role of the dependable warrior amongst twenty other dependable warriors. You didn't want much attention, and when you'd done your job you just sat back and watched.

But then it all changed, didn't it? Every action, every attack and every duel began to feel unimportant, perhaps even throwaway. You looked at the great heroes leading you, and how they were treated with awe and respect, and you began to resent them. What did they do to merit so much honour? You slew as many monsters as them, probably more. Sure, they happened to be the ones who pulled off the great mission into the enemy's territory, or the ones who were there when the final battle was won, but that meant nothing. They were only there because of chance, or luck, or because destiny said they had to be there. It could easily have been you who saved the world, but no one cares about you. You're just the throwaway soldier, one of many and leader of nothing.

So you tried to console yourself with the quiet victories. Maybe you wouldn't get recognition from the gods atop Olympus itself, but you would be happy with the quiet acknowledgment from your nearest peers, right?

Yeah. Sure. And maybe Mr. D will start acting like a responsible adult mortal.

But in the real world, the world in which your closest friends get killed in the battles to save Western Civilisation but those who embody that civilisation don't give a fuck, the world where a kid who makes a stupid little decision about whether to hand someone a knife or not gets hailed as the greatest hero ever to walk the earth, the world where your mother is murdered heartlessly and brutally by an entirely mortal monster just because she saw things others didn't, in _that_ world, the truth about you is simple. It's harsh. The truth is that you. Want. _More_.

But you deny this. Of course you do. Who wouldn't? It doesn't feel right to be so angry and resentful to those who are meant to be the heroes, and it doesn't feel right to be so greedy for applause and praise. You should just accept that you're a normal demigod. You're just a throwaway, used once for a purpose that was important in and of itself, but not relevant in the big picture. When the new half-bloods read the demigod history books in centuries to come, they're not going to want to know who killed a few battalions of monsters, they're going to want to know who stopped the fearsome Titan Kronos, or who lulled the terrible Gaea back into her endless slumber.

You think it over. You think all this over, during the long nights when you lie awake alone, haunted by the memories. You think it over, as you train and train, even when there's nothing left to train for. You think about it when you get attacked by a monster for the hundred millionth time.

And as you think, you realise everything you've ever done has been unremarkable, unimpressive, and unoriginal. You see that your life of service to the gods is the same as hundreds of thousands of millions of poor stupid fools who have gone before you, who are around you now, and who will follow in your footsteps.

So you decide to do one thing, one little thing, that will at least garner you some notice. After all, if your entire life is worthless and your mere existence is but a pawn among millions of pawns, does it matter what you do with that life?

So you take your throwaway life. You take it and press a knife against it. You hold that silly little existence in your hands. You hold it for such a long time, thinking. And what do you do?

You throw it away.

* * *

><p>Review! I really need feedback on this one.<p> 


End file.
